


Honey

by astromancer



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Minor Injuries, Night Terrors, One-Sided Attraction, Post-Canon, also kevin is oblivious to a lot of things, arnold is a sweetheart and just wants kevin to be okay, au in which kevin never got over his post-"i believe" grumpiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:18:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6455470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astromancer/pseuds/astromancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arnold does his best to try and pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kevin

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mean for this to come out as angsty as it did but here take this from me

It started the day Kevin Price sprained his wrist.

Perhaps it was a lapse in spatial judgment, or perhaps he just didn’t grab hold of the heavy box quite well enough. Either way, the box dropped from his startled hands and pain sparked up and down his arm like a streak of lightning. His wrist flared hotly, and he very nearly cried. But he didn’t. He didn't, because every single member of their mixed community was present and he wasn't about to let himself look weaker than he already was. 

Elder Thomas took over the job of picking up the box; filled with newly printed copies of the Book of Arnold that, by now, were probably worse for wear than they had been on the plane ride to Uganda, no thanks to Kevin.

It wasn’t the first time Kevin felt useless since Arnold had become a prophet. No, he’d been doing a wonderful job showing the other Elders just how much he’d been changed by the dry savannah and its people. It _was_ , however, the first time he felt useless for a reason that wasn’t about his lack of competence. Now, at least, there was a physical excuse for his inability. What should have been considered a curse cast upon him from God, Kevin considered a blessing.

Oh, how cruel life could be.

While Elder McKinley was the one most fussing over Kevin’s injury, speaking panicked nonsense in an attempt to console him (not that Kevin needed consoling, but if he had, it wasn't helping), cradling Kevin’s wrist in both hands and setting him in the shade, it was _Arnold_ who’d come to the rescue—a knight sans armor—calming McKinley’s worries and escorting Kevin back to their cabin to tend to him. Kevin felt like a child with mother tut-tutting over him (and probably looked like one too, what with the grumpy pout that stuck to his face far too often nowadays) as Arnold asked about his well-being a few too many times while prodding Kevin’s wrist with surprisingly tender hands.

Well, maybe the tenderness wasn’t _that_ surprising. While Arnold was indeed loud and boisterous, he was probably the most gentle and caring person Kevin had ever met. So of course Kevin silently endured Arnold’s undoctored and frankly unorthodox treatment of slathering Kevin’s swelling wrist with the crispy leftovers of their nearly-empty honey jar, all the while fighting the urge to push Arnold away and suffer through the pain by himself the way he felt he deserved.

After all, what good was he doing anyone now? The overachieving, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Kevin was gone, replaced by a hardened Kevin that hurt more than helped.

So why did Arnold still look at him as if he’d roped the moon and given him the world?

The honey had proved useful for something, at least. It kept the bandage tight and firm around Kevin’s swollen wrist, sticking in all the right places to keep it from coming undone.

It also kept Arnold within ten feet of him at all times.

Arnold insisted on taking care of him for the latter part of the day, feeling guilty about the sprain as if he’d caused it himself (“my books were in that box, so it’s kinda-sorta my fault if you think about it”), which was awful for Kevin because not only did Arnold feel responsible for Kevin’s own incompetence. But the more the Elders fussed, the more Kevin felt like disappearing off the face of the Earth.

He hated having to stand idly by while everyone else worked past him. He hated feeling so unbearably useless. He hated the pain that throbbed helplessly in his wrist. He hated that it made him feel more alive than he had in weeks. But most of all he hated having Arnold _so close_ all the time; checking on him, fretting over him. He was tired of catching his mission partner’s concerned glances milliseconds before they’d turn into the encouraging smiles Kevin knew all too well.

He was just plain _tired_.

If there’s one thing Kevin learned during his time in Uganda, it was that Heavenly Father sure enjoyed torturing him.

Things only got worse when, that night, the pain in his wrist became nearly unbearable. His entire body felt utterly confused, trying to sweat out the sweltering heat that emanated in waves up his arm and down to his very core, enveloping him in a blanket of hellfire and stabbing thorns. _This is what Hell feels like_ , he thought with a desperate and fearful whimper; one that sounded so unlike him and so much more like a child shaking under a blanket during a thunderstorm. He felt the clawing hands of demons at his wrist, trying to rip it off, or perhaps burn it, or perhaps both at once. A hand was at his face and he curled into himself out of fear. This couldn't have been a Hell Dream. It felt far too real, as if Satan himself were trying to pull Kevin down with him. And he was succeeding.

But there were no talons nor flames in this sudden touch—only careful strokes and gentle words, hushed and indecipherable around his pitiful whines.

Silence. Then, blessed coldness at his temples, dabbing a comfortable rhythm onto his skin. He heard the ocean in his ears, whooshing and crashing, so loud, _so loud_. But as the hands continued their rhythm, dabbing and stroking and brushing dampened hair out of his face, words finally began to form through the deafening heartbeat in his ears: _Shhh. It’s okay, buddy. I’m here._

  


Despite both the pain and fever gone, the morning after felt immensely awkward. Kevin refused to turn and face his sleeping roommate, embarrassed at his own moment of weakness and once again ashamed of being the damsel in distress awaiting his shining knight. He remembered a time, not all that long ago but feeling like centuries, where he was the knight, all swords and glory. He wondered where that knight had gone.

But maybe this was just how things had to be. Maybe this was the plan Heavenly Father set out for him after all. Maybe, for once in his life, Kevin was wrong about something.

Maybe he’d need to learn how to live the rest of his life on a slightly smaller plate.


	2. Arnold

Arnold awoke to the sight he’d grown fondly familiar with during his stay in Uganda—the back of Kevin Price’s head.

Arnold figured it _would_ be kind of weird if they faced each other as they slept, what with their beds pushed so close together. But it never did occur to Arnold that they could have just moved their beds away and over to the opposite walls--which, of course, meant that it never occurred to Arnold to ask his mission buddy for his thoughts about it, which, in turn, most likely meant that the idea had never occurred to Kevin, either. 

Which was probably for the best, because Arnold liked being close. It gave them endless opportunities for late night chats (which Kevin didn’t seem too fond of, but hey, it was always worth a shot), and it gave Arnold an excuse to snuggle that little bit closer to his mission buddy. The warmth radiating off him was nice, but Arnold had to be careful to stay entirely in his bed lest Kevin—or worse, the other Elders!—caught him in the act. Not a hand nor hair out of place. Not that Arnold necessarily cared about getting caught. No, he was more concerned about Kevin getting the brunt of the scolding for Arnold’s own need for closeness. It just wouldn’t be fair to him. Especially since Kevin had been feeling a little worse for wear lately. 

Anyone, even Arnold, could see it; the dark, purpled bags under his eyes (a sign of not enough sleep and too much coffee to cover it up), the distinct lack of the smile Arnold loved so much, and the downtrodden slouch of a broken man. 

It was in these signs that he figured no one would have scolded them for what happened last night. 

Kevin was a mess. He’d woken Arnold with a whine, so sad and keening that for a second Arnold had thought he’d been dreaming of dogs. But the sheets were damp and the pants and whimpers of _clearly not a dog_ were more than enough to set Arnold bolting up in bed. He’d scanned for an intruder, a wound, anything out of the ordinary until he saw Kevin’s painfully swollen wrist tucked uncomfortably into his own chest. Arnold was careful in straightening it out as best he could, and his fumbling hands slipped a couple of times on the sheen of sweat covering Kevin’s body as Kevin continued his endless stream of whimpers, confused and delirious. But with the first sloppy step towards calm and peacefulness done, Arnold wasn't sure what to do next. All he knew was that his mission buddy was suffering and it was his job to make everything better. So he decided that the best course of action now was to give Kevin the comfort he’d been longing to give him for weeks; comfort he knew Kevin needed and longed for but was still too proud to ask. 

It surprised Arnold more than anything that, for once in the time he’d known Kevin Price, he'd never once complained about his sprain. Kevin Price, who wanted everything perfect and broke down whenever it wasn’t. Kevin Price, who couldn’t bear the heat, the sweat, and the aridity of the savannah. Kevin Price, who had all the right intentions but all the wrong means. Arnold womdered how Kevin could bottle it all up when it was clearly eating away at him. 

Kevin’s light snoring had tapered off, and in his post-waking haze Arnold reached out a hand to touch the bare expanse of his mission buddy’s shoulder. It was no longer sticky and slick with sweat, which was definitely a good thing, but Kevin visibly flinched at the touch—a new and frankly frightening reaction from him—causing Arnold to pull back as if scalded.

“Kevin?” he tried gently, though he wavered halfway through.

“Don’t.”

“But—“

“Please." He inhaled, then exhaled, then spoke once more in the silence left by Arnold's dumbfoundedness in the wake of Kevin's odd behaviour. "It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

Arnold peered over, hoping to catch even a glimpse of Kevin’s face, to be able to judge an expression, but came up empty.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and for a moment was met with nothing but Kevin’s soft, heaving breaths just inches away from him. 

What he’d give to just turn Kevin around and make him spill everything, all the awful things that were no doubt circling his mind; things he didn’t deserve to have tormenting him, things he needed to let out. But Arnold knew that’s not how these things worked. Kevin needed time and patience. And Arnold was willing to give him all that and more. 

“No,” Kevin finally said. Or rather, Arnold was almost sure he did, for it was so low, even in the quiet of their room, that Arnold would have missed it if he hadn’t already been listening for it. 

Kevin shifted beside him, rustling in his sheets as he rearranged his arms to ease the pain, and Arnold could've sworn he heard a sniffle. Arnold sat up on his elbow, rubbing sleep out of his bleary eyes and counting down the seconds between Kevin’s terminal breakdown and the first slats of morning light shining through the cracks in the boards holding their rickety cabin together. He reached out once more, a second attempt at comforting his roommate in a moment of sober clarity and met his partner’s shoulder, this time relieved to find no resistance. 

He used the pad of his thumb to rub tender circles into Kevin’s skin, feeling the final tether snap within him. Each sob that racked through Kevin’s body was like a knife through Arnold’s, but he bore through it with a gentle smile that went entirely unnoticed by the back of Kevin’s head but that gave Arnold the strength he needed to continue.

“You know you’re not going this alone, right?” he said between circles. “We’re all here for you. _I’m_ here for you.”

A few rather heavy sobs shook Kevin, then: “That’s just it. This mission was about finding ourselves. Our faith. Our solidarity. But all I’ve found is a person I don’t want to be. A person who has to let others take care of him because he’s just too weak to.”

“Hey.” Arnold called out, stopping Kevin’s pity party in its tracks before it consumed him whole. Admittedly, he was surprised that Kevin was crying over his life instead of the injury that debilitated him the way it had the night before, but maybe the injury had just been the final nail in the coffin. “You’re not weak, okay? You’re the strongest person I know.”

Kevin snorted at that, but Arnold still pushed on.

“Sure, you might complain a lot, and give up on things that you don’t want to deal with, but you know what? You’ve done a lot of growing here. We all have. And I think that's pretty great.”

The peek of Kevin’s cheek over the shoulder Arnold was playing connect-the-freckles on told Arnold he was listening; the hesitance in Kevin’s belief in his words was clear, though, so elaborate he would.

“I mean, you learned how to face your problems instead of running away. And yeah, it may have taken some running away to realize that. But hey, at least you changed your mind, right? That takes a lot of courage, and I’m proud of you, buddy.”

Another sniffle. But the sobs had quieted, at least. Arnold called it progress. 

They revelled in silence for a few minutes. Arnold figured Kevin was mulling over his words. Distracted, he caught himself in the midst of following the slight curve of Kevin's hips with his eyes, and realized that now might be the only time he'd get to let something off his chest. 

"You know," Arnold began slowly, whispering into the stillness. "You're an amazing person. You've got everything I don’t, but I don't hate you for that at all. Kinda the opposite, actually..." 

Kevin's face finally came into view as he moved to lie on his back. His sore wrist came to a rest on his stomach; the curvature of his arm over his body only further accentuated his unfairly attractive figure and Arnold forced himself to look away, lest Kevin noticed the heat that warmed his cheeks. 

"Yeah?" Arnold heard the wood frame creak under Kevin. Had Kevin leaned in closer? Arnold's brain was a million Matrix codes, all frazzled and busy, attempting to line up in a way that wouldn't make Arnold come off awkward as all hell. They appeared to be failing profoundly. 

"Yeah," he replied, half-hoping Kevin hadn’t noticed the crack in his voice but half-hoping that he did.

"Thanks, buddy. That means a lot."

Arnold released the breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding and smiled at the sentiment. But he couldn't help but feel... disappointed? No, never in Kevin. Misunderstood, maybe? Whatever it was, he didn’t like the feeling it gave him in the pit of his stomach; like worms trying to wiggle out but unable to find an exit. Kevin must have caught on to Arnold's unexpected silence, for he changed the subject entirely. 

“Sorry for waking you up last night," he said. Arnold shook his head, both in negating Kevin's statement and in shaking himself out of his unwanted stupor. His bed-tousled curls shook freely, although they went mostly unseen.

“Nah, don’t worry about it! That’s what friends are for.” Kevin made a sound of protest and Arnold lowered his voice a pitch, adding, “It’s okay. Really. I couldn’t sleep, anyway.”

He may have been known to make things up, but he learned that sometimes making things up made other people feel better about themselves. That’s exactly what landed him the title of prophet in the first place, after all. And Arnold was oblivious to his selflessness if only because he revelled so much in the happiness his fibs caused to the people that truly mattered. 

In the midst of their seriousness, Kevin’s voice, too, has lowered back down to a nearly incoherent whisper; so much so that Arnold had to lean forward a bit to catch the entire thing.

“What did I ever do to deserve you?”

Now it was Arnold’s turn to snort. But it was a happy sound. A grateful sound. A sound of relief. His smile brightens in the morning light, and the awkward air that had settled between them had cleared.

To think Kevin was overwhelmingly grateful of Arnold’s company all this time, while Arnold spent the past year thinking the same of himself in Kevin’s. 

Maybe, for one of many times in his life, Arnold was wrong about something. 

Kevin wasn’t among the gods, too high up to reach. But he wasn’t among humans, either, as much as his downtrodden soul would like to believe. He was a beacon, smack dab in the middle, relaying faith and light from the heavens to the people down below. 

If only he could know exactly what Arnold thought of him. If only Arnold could muster up the strength to tell him and not slip it in as yet another missed cue that sneaks right past Kevin’s radar, entirely undetected. 

Arnold watched as Kevin got out of bed. He watched as Kevin stretched, muscles taut under the thin white cotton, and watched fingers wipe away the tears his mission buddy desperately seemed to want to keep hidden. But Kevin turned his cheek and the watery tracks were gone. In their place, the tentative quirk of a smile, back from the grave that Arnold was beyond glad he wouldn’t have to mourn over. 

It was a start. 

Arnold got up, too, following close with Kevin’s daily ritual of dressing up and perfecting his already perfect hair, though he took a bit longer with both now, what with his injured wrist. Kevin didn’t ask for help and Arnold didn’t offer, opting instead to stick around just in case Kevin’s got hopelessly trapped inside his dress shirt or tangled up in his tie. Arnold made sure to tuck in his own shirt just like Kevin did; a prophet needed to look his best, after all. It felt nice to know that he could still follow Kevin, even after gaining the leadership he thought he’d never have. 

"Come on, buddy,” he said after Kevin looked about as ready as he could be, giving Kevin a friendly pat on the back and a smile that Kevin would think was far too cheery for being up this early in the morning. The bags under Kevin’s eyes spoke to him, and he replied in turn.

“We can talk more over breakfast. Coffee?”

“God, yes,” Kevin breathed, and they shared a small, shaky, hopeful laugh that was interrupted too soon by the pain in Kevin’s wrist, but it was still something. 

And even through the sweat and tears, the honey still held firm.


End file.
